


Dial L for Love

by SomewhereApart



Series: OQHappyEndings2018 [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, OQ Happy Ending Week, Phone Sex, prompts, what? it count as a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 06:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15285513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: On a lonely Valentine's Day, Robin accidentally dials a phone sex line, and gets more than he bargained for. For OQ Happy Ending Week day 6 (Saturday). Prompt by sometimesangryblackwoman, two V-Days ago.





	Dial L for Love

This is a joke. 

A cruel, cruel joke from a cruel, cruel universe.

He’d meant to dial the florist, had meant to order a little bouquet for Mary Margaret, something that would arrive on her desk tomorrow and maybe lift some of the gloom of her having to pine after the all-too-attached veterinarian she has such a crush on as he goes out for a Valentine’s Day dinner with his wife (he thinks she should walk away from that situation entirely, but it’s not his business, now is it?).

But he must have misdialed, must have hit the nine rather than the eight as he dialed his 1-800, because there’s a sultry voice on the line cycling through the beginning of an automated menu again, “You’ve reached Happy Endings, where all your dirty dreams come true. To speak to a college co-ed, press one. For the wonders of the far east, press two. For a mature mama, press three…”

It’s a sex line.

He’s accidentally dialed a phone sex line. On Valentine’s Day.

As if the holiday isn’t lonely enough, as if he hasn’t spent the whole day alternating between missing Marian and trying not to miss Marian. Trying to move on from the memory of her laugh, her smile, her kiss, her body. Trying to tuck them all away in a safe place and move forward with his life. As if being surrounded by all the hearts and flowers didn’t already make him feel a bit like a loveless leper. 

He’s ended up dumbstruck, sitting here listening to instructions to press six for a dominatrix.

And worse, he’s having a hard time bringing himself to hang up the phone. 

He’s never done this before, would never do this, would never dream of doing this. But it’s Valentine’s Day, and he’s lonely, and the voice purrs, “For a Latina lover, press eight,” and he thinks of dark hair and dark eyes and has a moment of absolute temporary insanity, and presses eight.

**.::.**

 

She’s halfway through an episode of _Sherlock_ when her work phone rings, and Regina frowns and hits the pause button on her remote. 

It’s taken her three hours to _get_ halfway through this episode; Valentine’s Day is a busy night for a woman offering a few minutes of fantasy to lonely men. But Happy Endings pays extra for the girls who make themselves available on V-Day, so here she is, on her couch, in her sweats, sighing and greeting her dispatcher as she readies herself to get another lonely guy off as slowly as humanly possible.

“Hey, Ruby,” she says, reaching for her wine as she asks, “What have I got?”

“Latina lover for five minutes with the option to re-up,” Ruby tells her. So much for as slowly as possible – she has four minutes and about 45 seconds to get this guy to decide he wants two more minutes. And two more. And two more…

“Got it,” she confirms, and then there’s a click, and she swallows the quick sip of cab she’d taken and drops her voice for a lightly accented and heavily flirtatious, “Hola.”

There’s a moment of silence, an exhale, and then a muttered, “This was a terrible idea.”

Ah. A first-timer. Lonely on Valentine’s Day, tempted by the ads on the cable channels no doubt, or maybe a sweaty-palmed internet search – and now wholly intimidated by an actual person on the other end of the line.

Should’ve stuck with your free porn, buddy.

But he’s paid for five minutes, and she can loosen him up, she’s sure of it. So she tells him, “Don’t be silly,” and then, “It’s just a little _conversacion_.”

“You’re a sex operator,” he points out, and she had missed the accent before, he’d barely been speaking loudly enough for her to make out the words, but she hears it now – he’s English. A nice change of pace, if he doesn’t turn out to be the judgmental asshole he’s being right now.

She rolls her eyes a little but smiles so he’ll hear it as she purrs, “I’m whatever you want me to be, papi.”

“Alright, this was a mistake,” he sighs, and she’s very glad she gets paid for the full five minutes regardless, because it sounds like they’ll be lucky if he makes it to minute two. “A literal mistake, in fact. I meant to call the florist, and then I went bloody mad, and now here we are. But I don’t… I’ve never…”

You never laugh at a client. Never ever. You redirect, you take a moment to compose yourself, you press your thumb over the microphone while you snort helplessly into your elbow for a second, but you never laugh at a client.

Except she hears _I meant to call the florist_ and she can’t help the little bark of laughter that pops up out of her. “Oh,” she sighs on the tail end of a giggle, “I’m sorry, papi, but I am most definitely not the florist.”

“No, you’re not, and this was a mistake,” he says, again, but he’s still on the line, isn’t he?

“You pressed eight,” she points out, and he’s silent for a moment. 

And then he says, “Well, there was no button for I’ve-made-a-terrible-mistake-but-I-can’t-bring-myself-to-hang-up.”

She chuckles then, not _at_ him so much as _with_ him, makes it sultry and then says, “Si, there is: end call.” So clearly, “You’re curious.”

She hears him breathe in, breathe out, and admit, “Yes.”

“And maybe a little lonesome tonight?”

“Yes.”

“We only have two minutes now,” she tells him, “But I can work with four, if you’d like.”

“I don’t…” He breathes in, out. “Don’t call me ‘papi.’ I have a son; it’s weird.”

She smirks, manages to bite down the snicker that wants to break through and says, “Okay, mi amor.”

“And…”

“Anything you want,” she reminds softly.

“Do you really have that accent?” he asks her, sounding flustered and maybe a little annoyed. With himself, she hopes.

“Do you want me to?”

“Not if you don’t.”

So she drops it, and asks him, “Why did you really press eight for Latina lover?”

“Because co-eds made me feel like an old lech, mature sounded like I’d get a woman old enough to be my mum, I don’t have an Asian fetish, or a bondage fetish, or—” He stops suddenly and then says, “My wife was Chilean.”

“Ah,” she says knowingly. So she’ll be playing the role of the ex-lover tonight – if she can get him past the rapidly approaching five-minute mark. “You miss bronzed skin and dark hair.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I happen to have both.” It’s a little bit of a lie. She hasn’t gotten enough sun recently to qualify as bronzed, but she’s capable of it if you give her a few days at the beach. And besides, she’s certainly not the blonde eighteen year old she pretends to be if a guy presses One. This is barely a stretch.

There’s a little beep on the line, a thirty-second warning for his time being up, and she tells him so: “Our five minutes are almost up, but if you’ll stay on the line, we can talk about anything you want. I have to remind you that it’s $3.99 for every two minutes after five.”

He hesitates; she can hear the tension over the line and urges softly, “Anything you want. Movies, food, sex. Her. Anything you want.”

He’s quiet for another few seconds, and his voice is reluctant and soft when he asks, “What do you look like?”

Regina grins and reaches for her cell, sets the stopwatch running so she can keep track and sets it on the cushion beside her as she purrs, “What do you want—”

“No,” he cuts her off, but gently. “Please.”

Right. This isn’t his thing, the phone sex line. He wants something more real, probably. Something that makes him feel like less of a perv. 

“Mm, I’m five-foot-three,” she lowballs a little; men seem to like women who are more petite. “A size two. Dark hair, dark eyes…” She takes a moment to decide how big her tits are going to be tonight, trying to judge if he’s a D-cup kind of guy or if she should go for honesty with her Bs, and he takes advantage of her pause to ask how long her hair is. “Long,” she lies – she’d hacked off six inches a week ago, brought it up to a bob at her chin, and she regrets it. So. “Past my shoulders, but not quite to my breasts…”

“I like long,” he murmurs, and she smiles. Point, Regina. 

And since he’s so against the idea of her giving him whatever he wants (even though that is her job, that is what he is paying for), she tells him, “I’m a B-cup; I hope that’s okay…”

“Perfect,” he says, exhales really, almost a little sigh, and now that she has him roped in, she has more time to appreciate that accent, the way it wraps around his words, the way the timbre of his voice deepens as he sounds less fraught.

“You have a very sexy voice,” she tells him; not a lie. “And if I’m not going to call you ‘papi,’ and if I’m not your Latina lover, I’m going to need to know what to call you while we’re talking.”

He tells her his name is, “Robin. What about you?”

And she lies, always lies for this one: “My name is Trina.”

“Trina,” he tests it out on his tongue, and oh, for a second she wishes she’d told him the truth, because that accent really is sexy and she wonders how _Regina_ would sound from his lips. “It’s a nice name.”

“Thank you. So is Robin.”

“Not really,” he says, and she thinks he’s smiling, thinks she can hear it. And then he says, “So,” and, “Trina,” and, “What are you doing right now?”

Regina rolls her eyes a little. Not so shy anymore, huh, buddy?

“Mm, I’m sitting on my bed in a nightie with a glass of wine, waiting for you to call.”

“I very much doubt that,” he says to her, skeptically, before reminding her, “You said anything I want to talk about, yeah?”

“I did.”

“Alright, then. Don’t lie. I don’t care how _unsexy_ you think something is; I’m lonely and a little horny, but I’m not sold on jerking off into someone’s ear yet, so let’s just have a conversation for a while, alright?”

If that’s the way he wants to play it…

“I’m watching tv on the couch, in my sweats, waiting for the phone to ring. The wine is true, though.”

He chuckles softly, and oh, that sounds nice, too. He’s a very nice-sounding man; that’s not a given in this job. And it sounds like they’re going to be on this call for a while, so she shifts, scoots down until she’s lying on her back on the soft sofa cushions, sets her wine on the floor, and shuts her eyes so she can listen to him a bit more intently. 

“What color are the sweats?” he asks, and she grins. _Not sure about the jerking off, my ass_ , she thinks. If he wasn’t sure, he’d be asking what she’s watching, but no, no, he wants to complete his visual.

She tells him, “Navy blue,” and “My tank top is red, with lace edging. And I’m not wearing a bra.”

“Liar,” he accuses again, and she shakes her head. 

“I promise. No bra. Lace thong - that’s blue. Aqua blue, I suppose,” she says, keeping her tone conversational in the hope he’ll believe she’s telling him the truth. 

“Why no bra?”

“It’s comfortable,” she shrugs. “And provides easy access.”

“Really.”

“Really,” she answers. “Sometimes these calls are not sexy in the least. Sometimes they are _very_ sexy. And I work from home, so when I find them very sexy…” 

“You get to enjoy them, too?” he supplies, and she nods, and then _Mmhmms_ for him.

“Why should you guys get to have all the fun?” she muses, and Robin chuckles again. 

“And how sexy has your night been so far?”

“Not very,” she admits. “The first guy got dumped last week, so he basically cried for ten minutes straight while I told him how big his cock was, and that his ex-girlfriend was absolutely wrong about him being roughly the size of a baby carrot.” 

He laughs at that, full throated and genuine, and mutters, “Poor guy…”

“Poor guy?” she questions. “Poor me. It’s hard to be sexy when someone is blubbering in your ear.”

“I’m sure you managed,” he says to her. “You have a sexy voice, too, you know.”

“Thank you,” she says, lowering said sexy voice just a little, giving it that edge of velvet that her callers seem to enjoy. “You’re sure you want me to use it to talk about other guys?”

**.::.**

Robin decides that no, actually, he doesn’t. Even if it’s more stories like the first, all she’ll be telling him about is all the other men she’s gotten off tonight, and while he has no illusions about what this is, has no need for her to be his and his alone… No, he doesn’t want to listen to her talk about other men just now, he supposes.

Not if he can find another use for her lovely voice. And it really is lovely. There’s a warmth to it, a sexiness, a sort of sultry heat when she’s laying it on thick. He bets she has a lot of satisfied clients.

Bets she would sound incredibly sexy telling him in detail everything she’d do to him or let him to do her, but the thought has anxious shame pinching nervously in his belly. He’s not the type of guy who _does_ this. Calls a 900 number and spends, Christ, nearly four dollars a minute just to talk to a woman. To be lewd and lecherous and…

This isn’t him.

He tells himself he’s not doing that _anyway_ , that they’re only talking, and to prove the point, tells her that, “No, I don’t think I do, in fact,” and instead asks a very mundane, “What were you watching?”

Because he’s not having phone sex, he’s just having a bit of conversation. A very expensive bit of conversation. Robin promises himself that next week he’ll go out to a pub or something and have some slightly less expensive conversation with a real, in-the-flesh woman, and never ever speak of this again.

He’s pleasantly surprised when Trina answers, “Sherlock.”

“BBC Sherlock?” he asks, just to be sure, and when she answers in the affirmative, he thinks at least she has good taste. “Which series?”

“First episode,” she tells him. “It’s easier to watch something I’ve seen before when I’m working. That way, if I have to pause it to take a call, I’m not distracted.”

“Makes sense,” he says to her. And then he scowls and asks a question he’s always wanted the bloody answer to: “What exactly is it that women find so attractive about Benedict Cumberbatch? I’ve never understood it.”

“I have no idea,” she drawls. “I think he looks like a sheared alpaca.”

Robin’s sudden bark of laughter is loud enough that he covers his mouth with his hand, grateful that Roland is asleep in his room and not likely to wake.

She’s still talking, saying, “I like my men a little less… clean-shaven.”

“I have a beard,” he supplies, like an idiot.

But her, “Do you?” actually sounds interested. Of course, he’s paying her to sound interested, so there is that.

“A short one,” he says, “I don’t look like a lumberjack.”

She laughs a little (she has a nice laugh), and asks him, “What _do_ you look like?”

“Is that a question you usually ask?” he wonders, and she tells him that _No, I usually ask things like ‘Can you fuck me deeper, Daddy?’_ Right. Okay then. 

“But since we’re not having one of _those_ conversations,” she continues, “I find myself curious.”

Robin clears his throat slightly and tells her, “Blue eyes, hair is a sort of blondish-brown.”

“Short or long?” she asks, and he smiles. Turnabout is fair play, hmm?

“Short. Neat, I suppose.”

“I like neat,” she says, and he really, truly does enjoy the sound of her voice. She sounds relaxed now, at ease. Not wanton or forbidden, just… like a woman. An ordinary woman on an ordinary call, telling him she likes her men, “Manly, but neat.”

“Oh, I assure you I am very manly,” he shoots back, because why shouldn’t he flirt with her a little? “Never met a pickle jar I couldn’t open.”

She huffs a little chuckle, and teases right back, “Strong hands, then.”

“I suppose.”

“Strong hands are good. Sexy.”

Robin frowns at that, slumping down a little bit in his desk chair, allowing himself to get comfortable, to relax. And then he asks, “Hands are sexy?”

“Strong hands are, yes. A good firm handshake, a nice massage…” Her voice is mischievous and flirty when she adds, “A good spank,” and Robin feels his cheeks heat. He has a sudden image of a pretty brunette on a sofa, ass in the air and navy blue sweats puddled around her knees as he makes her cheeks rosy with a well-placed swat. 

He feels a bit of blood rush south at the brief moment of fantasy and thinks _Fuck_ and _Robin, stop that_. 

Then he clears his throat again, and asks, “Do you really like spanking?”

“Do _you_ —” she starts, but he cuts her off. 

He’s curious, she’s offered candor. He doesn’t want to play the game tonight, he just wants to _talk_. And he’s not sure he wants to admit to a stranger that, yes, apparently, he does like spanking. Or at least the idea of spanking _her_.

So he reminds, “I’ve asked you not to do that,” and gets in return _You’re paying me to do that._ “No, I’m paying you not to,” he insists, adding a quiet, “Please.”

“Fine,” she relents, in the closest thing he thinks he’s ever heard to a verbal equivalent of a shrug. Her voice is so expressive... And then she says, “I’m spanking-neutral. I don’t mind it, but I don’t crave it. If we’re being honest, I’m not all that turned on by being the spank _er_ , but being on the receiving end, in the right situation, from the right guy... very sexy.” His brain supplies a traitorous request to be the right guy, but he tells that part of his brain to shut it. “But unless you pay me to, I’m not likely to be asking you to let me call you Daddy and teach me a lesson.”

Robin swallows thickly, and wishes he had something to drink. Beer, or even better – whiskey. No reason he can’t, he supposes, so he rises from his desk chair and heads for the kitchen, and as he does, he gives in to the urge to ask her, “Do you have a great ass?”

“I have an _incredible_ ass,” she tells him, with a truly attractive amount of confidence, and he laughs at her, shakes his head. And then she’s insisting, “I do. It’s wasted over the phone.”

“Well, you have to save something for the men who get the pleasure of your company in person,” he reasons playfully, taking a moment as he passes Roland’s room to make sure the door is shut. He’s only four, he certainly doesn’t need to absorb any of their not-so-obscene conversation by osmosis.

“Mm. Not many of those these days,” she muses with an air of genuine disappointment, and he finds himself wondering immediately how a woman as sexy as she is could possibly be single. And then he’s struck by a moment of realization that he doesn’t know anything about her, not really, he’s just assuming she’s sexy because she has a nice voice. But there’s no guarantee as to whether she’s anything she says she is. She could be a four hundred pound blue-eyed blonde for all he knows. 

Of course, so could he for all _she_ knows, and so what does it really matter?

But he’s paying her to be thin, and pretty, and dark-haired and dark-eyed, a size two B-cup with a great ass. So he puts all other ideas out of his mind, and tells himself that’s who she is.

Not that it _matters,_ because they are only _talking_. 

He tells her, “That’s a shame,” as he pads into his kitchen and heads for the fridge, and she makes a sort of noncommittal sound and tells him that it’s not so bad. That she’s too busy to date right now anyway.

 _Not too busy to be alone on Valentine’s Day, though,_ his brain supplies, and he tells it to hush again. _You’re alone on Valentine’s Day, too, you plonker_.

He grabs a beer and cracks it open, bobbling the phone a little bit as he tries to hold it in place between cheek and shoulder while his hands are busy with bottle and opener. He curses a little and slips the phone back into place, her voice mildly amused when she asks, “Everything okay over there?”

“Yeah, s’fine,” he assures. “Just nearly dropped you while opening a beer.”

“How dare you,” she scolds with a teasing tartness that makes him smile. “What kind of beer?”

“Blue Moon,” he tells her, and she hums a little and says his choice is _Not bad_. “How’s that wine?”

“My glass is still half-full,” she admits. “It’s hard to drink when you’re flat on your back.”

Robin takes a sip of his beer, savors the cool bitterness of it, and then asks, “Why are you lying down?”

“It seemed like this would be a longer call; I wanted to be comfortable. I’d ask where you are, but judging by your very nearly dropping me so rudely, the kitchen is probably a fair guess.”

“It was,” he concedes, “but I’m heading back to the sofa.”

“Is your son still up?”

“No, he’s in bed by seven.”

“Young, then,” she assumes, and he confirms that yes, he is, but doesn’t offer her any more than that. She doesn’t push, either, and for a moment there’s dead air – not a long moment, but noticeable.

He doesn’t want it to stretch into awkwardness, so he fills it with, “So, um…” and then draws a blank. Not a thought available to pluck from his head as he relocates to the sofa, as promised, and stretches out much like he imagines she has. What he comes up with is very un-sexy: “How much have I racked up so far?”

**.::.**

Regina chuckles and shakes her head, glances at her timer and does some mental math. 

“About eighty five dollars,” she tells him, and when Robin curses softly over the line she actually feels a little bit guilty. It’s not like he’s really getting his _money’s_ worth, shooting the breeze with her. “If I’d known you were going to be such a Chatty Cathy I’d have told you to call back and request me personally, and book a half-hour. It’s cheaper than paying by the minute like this.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he mutters in a way that makes it clear he has no intention of doing so. But she’s just told him he’s spent nearly a hundred dollars to talk to her for half an hour, and he’s not making any move to hang up, so she thinks maybe he shouldn’t be so sure.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” she tells him teasingly. “That voice _is_ sexy, and I have my eye on a particular Birkin bag.”

Robin snorts a little and says, “I’m not sure I could carry on enough conversation to keep you in Birkin bags.”

“Oh, I bet you could.”

“Is this that lucrative?” he asks her, and she’s tempted to tell him yes, but a glance around her modest-but-not-extravagant apartment says otherwise, and she doesn’t want to ruin the chances of him ever calling again by having him think she’s loaded. She’ll take a half an hour of small talk over a half an hour of graphically describing how some panting no-doubt-sweaty guy is licking her foot any day. 

So she tells him, “No, it’s not. But it does help pay for very sexy things like student loans and Visa bills.”

“From my credit card directly to yours?” he teases, and Regina smiles, tells him _Pretty much_. 

He doesn’t sound overly bothered by it, so maybe _he_ is loaded, and a hundred dollars for some pleasant conversation is worth it. And if that’s the case, well… “I know you got to me by accident, but I’m glad you did. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“But you did press eight,” she adds slowly, getting to her point with, “And I haven’t really given you the Happy Endings experience you were curious about.”

“I asked you not to,” he reminds, and yes, he had. 

“I know. I just want to make sure your… _curiosity_ is satisfied.”

He’s quiet for a second, long enough for her to think about sitting up and having another sip of wine, and then he asks her with a palpable sort of guilt, “Do you hate doing this?”

“I don’t,” she answers, honestly. “Especially not for nice guys like you. So don’t feel guilty; you can say anything you want to me. Ask me for anything you want. Ask me to do anything you want, say anything you want, pretend anything you want. It’s a day for lovers; it sounds like neither of us have one, so maybe we could… help each other out.”

“I’ve, um…” He clears his throat slightly, his words more hesitant now, and softer. He’s keeping his voice down, and she wonders if it’s not just the young son who lives with him. If there’s a roommate, or god forbid, a girlfriend – he _was_ dialing the florist on Valentine’s Day after all. Maybe he’s an asshole boyfriend who’s in the doghouse for forgetting the holiday in the first place. And then he says, “I’ve never had phone sex,” and she decides to think of him as the Nice Guy after all. Easier that way, and more fun for her.

She matches him, drops her voice a little, keeps her words soft and secretive as she asks, “Do you want to, Robin?”

He doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t say, yes, either, but she’s fairly certain she can _hear_ him swallow thickly across the phone line. 

“I, um…”

He hesitates again, and she rolls her eyes a little, shakes her head. Honestly. Shit or get off the pot.

But sometimes they need some hand-holding, sometimes they need some encouraging, so she says, “It doesn’t have to start with instructions, you know. We’re pretty good at talking, we could just talk about sex and see where it goes. Wade in slowly…”

“Talk about sex?”

“Mmhmm,” she says, and then, “Is there anything you’ve ever wanted to know? Anything you’ve ever wanted to ask a woman about sex that you were too afraid to?”

“Of course.”

“Ask me. I’ll tell you the truth, I promise.”

“How often do you fake it?” he asks, and Regina takes a moment to wonder if he’s really thought that one through. His brain must catch up quickly, because he clarifies, “When you’re not working.”

“Not often,” she admits, although it’s been a long time since she’s even had a chance to fake an orgasm in person.

“But you have.”

“I have.”

He lets out this frustrated little sigh, and wonders, “Why? Why not just… lead a man in the right direction?”

“Not every man can be led,” she tells him. “But to be honest, the few times I’ve faked it, it was because I was tired, or it just… wasn’t going to happen. Some nights you just know.”

“That’s, um… not something I’m familiar with,” he tells her, a little cheekily, and she laughs softly.

He’s clearly more comfortable now, talking _about_ sex, rather than sex itself, and she pats herself on the back a little bit for being able to guess how to lead them down this road in a way that works for him.

“I bet, Romeo,” she teases, adding, “Women are more complicated than men.”

“Quite,” he agrees with a little chuckle. And then he asks, “Which is more important, the G-spot or the clit?”

Regina bites down on a grin, a little laugh in the back of her throat, and then hums, “Mmm… Depends on the woman. They feel different, the pleasure is… different. I know some women who can’t come without some clit action, and some who’d honestly prefer you left it alone.”

“Lies,” he accuses, Regina snorts.

“No lies; I promised,” she swears, one hand dropping to toy idly with the drawstring at the top her sweats. She twirls it around her finger as she tells him, “I guess sometimes it’s too sensitive. Not for me, though.” Regina untwirls the drawstring with a soft, audible inhale and lowers her voice to a whisper to tell him, “I like to be touched. I like to be… licked, and sucked, and… You know what I love?”

“What?” he asks, obediently, his own voice gone a little soft to match hers. Now they’re getting somewhere.

“I love when you’re both really into it, and really turned on, and right before you take me, you drag your cock over me, down from my clit and back up, feeling how wet I am. And then for a minute you just tease my clit with it, rubbing the head against it, making me want you even more. Over and over until I’m squirming and… desperate...” She licks her lips, pleasantly surprised by how much _she_ is enjoying telling him this. She tugs at the drawstring, pulling the knot loose. She’s not going to start touching herself just yet, but she has a feeling she can draw him out, and if she does, well… she’s definitely going to take advantage. 

He’s gone quiet now, and she can almost feel the anticipation radiating from him over the phone, but he doesn’t say anything. So she coaxes, “Is that something you like, too?”

She hears him inhale, hears a little rush of breath out. “It’s not something I’ve made a habit of,” he admits. “Although I think that may have to change.”

“Mm, you should definitely give it a try,” Regina tells him, smirking at herself and then adding, “And then report back, and tell me how it went over.”

He laughs at that—an easy, warm sort of laugh that she very much enjoys—and then teases, “Oh, I’ll be sure to do that; you’ll be the first one I call.”

“I better be,” she flirts, her fingertips wandering, tugging up the hem of her tank top so she can run her nails lightly over the soft skin of her belly. It gives her goosebumps, makes her nipples tighten. “What else do want to know, Robin?”

“Mm. Well. I’m not sure you’ve fully answered my last question.” There’s a playful lilt to his voice, but a little heat too, especially when he tells her, “You said the pleasure is different, so… Different how?”

“G-spot pleasure is…” She tries to find the right descriptor and settles on, “deeper. It’s like I can feel it in my belly, it radiates out a bit more, it… It’s just different. Makes me… breathless?”

“Breathless?”

“Yeah, I, um— I think if I needed to, you could rub my clit discretely and I could carry on a whole conversation until just about the point of orgasm, but hit my G-spot just right and I’ve got about fifteen seconds before I’m a moaning mess.”

Case in point, she lets her hand slip down and give her clit a firm rub through her sweats (she’s starting to ache, starting to get wet), without even so much as a gasp.

“I see.” He’s smiling; she can hear it. She likes it. “So you’re more of a G-spot girl, then?”

“Well, no…” she admits. “I’d be nonverbal, but I wouldn’t come. You’d have to rub my clit.”

“I suppose I could manage,” he says like it would be a burden, but she can tell from his tone that’d it’d be anything but.

“How gentlemanly of you,” she plays along.

He makes this little sound of agreement, tells her he strives always to be so, and then asks her bluntly, “Speaking of G-spots, is squirting really a thing outside of porn?”

She can tell by his tone that he’s doubtful, so she giggles softly and tells him, “Yes. It is.”

“Have you ever…?”

“No, but I have friends who have, and I have this one toy that I’ve sometimes thought maybe I would while I was using it…” Her thighs clench a little at the memory, and she gives her clit another lazy rub, then lets her hand wander north again as she sighs, “But so far, no luck.”

“Mm,” he says, interested, and a little... breathy? It’s almost a moan, but not quite, and Regina wonders if she’s the only one with wandering hands. “What did it feel like, when you thought you might? Can you… describe it?”

Regina grins. 

There we go. She’s hooked him.

“Good,” she answers, dipping her voice low again to match his, like they’re whispering secrets across the line. “Really, really good. My heart starts to beat fast, and my belly feels… hot. I can feel how tight I’m getting, and the way the end thumps against my G-spot with every thrust, and my back starts to arch, and I start moaning, and…” 

She can hear him breathing now, thicker, aroused, and it thrills her just a little. She’s not unaffected herself—she’s telling the truth, she does have _that one toy_ that teases her into thinking she might finally really squirt, but she never does. Thinking about that moment just before, talking about it with this sexy stranger (he’s sexy, she’s decided; it makes this more interesting), has her feeling increasingly… warm. Naughty, but in a good way rather than a slutty way. Her free hand cups her breast now, her thumb grazing back and forth over her nipple as she sighs dreamily (that’s definitely for show) and continues, “Every thought just leaves my head, except for one: ‘this is it, this is gonna be the time.’”

“And then? Why don’t you?”

She shrugs and admits, “I don’t know. I get so close, I can feel it right there under the surface, but I can’t… quite… get there.” She bites her lip and adds, “It’s a lot of fun to try, though.” 

He tells her, “I bet,” and then breathes in, and out. “I bet you sound incredibly sexy when you’re about to come.”

She’s grinning again, giving her breast a little squeeze and tugging the neckline of her tank top down so she can toy lazily with her nipple. Regina isn’t sure exactly _why_ she wants so badly to talk this guy into making her do her actual job (maybe it’s the accent; maybe it’s that she has a gut feeling he really is a nice, albeit lonely, guy; maybe it’s because she’s alone on Valentine’s Day and taking calls on a sex line), but she feels a little flicker of pride that she’s gotten him to tiptoe into the realm of actual phone sex. 

So proud that she says something very dumb—but, well, she’s already admitted she sometimes masturbates during a call, so is it really _that_ dumb of her to ask, “Do you want to hear it for yourself? I could move to the bedroom and give it the ol’ college try.”

She can actually hear his thick swallow over the phone, the subtle smack of his lips as he licks them. “I, um… Is that something _you_ want?”

“Robin…” she says, warningly. “You’re the one who’s paying.”

“No,” he insists. “I mean, yes, I’m paying, but I don’t want to pay for something you don’t want to do.”

“I know that,” she tells him easily. “And I could very easily sit here and make a lot of money just talking to you, so trust me, if I’m offering… additional services… it’s because I want to. Not because you’re paying. I’m pretty sure you’d pay me to talk about chess if I wanted.”

“I’m quite good at chess,” he tells her, and Regina snorts a little, rolling her eyes and biting at her smile. 

He would be, wouldn’t he?

“Mm, well if you want to teach me over the phone, I’d gladly get paid to learn.” He chuckles at her, and she drops her voice again to bring them back around to the topic at hand: “But if you want to hear me come… I’m game for that, too.”

He hesitates a moment, then asks yet again, “You really want to masturbate for me?”

“I really want to masturbate _with_ you, but… yes. I really want to let you hear me come.”

Her fingers have wandered southward again, rubbing idly over the crotch of her sweats—not hard, just a lazy, light friction over cotton and lace. Not enough to get anything done, but enough to warm herself up.

She’s not surprised that Robin asks her, “Why?”

“Because you have a very sexy voice, and you seem like a nice guy, and it’s Valentine’s Day and we’re both alone.” He breathes in, out. “And because talking about it has gotten me in the mood. If I don't do it now, I’ll definitely do it when we hang up—and you’ll miss out.”

It takes a moment, but he finally, finally relents and tells her, “Well, that would be an awful shame, wouldn’t it. Alright. I want to hear you. You don’t have to get the toy if you don’t want, but—”

“Why wouldn’t I want that?” she drawls, sitting up and pushing herself off the couch. “Who knows, maybe with that sexy British accent in my ear, today will be the day.”

He laughs, and she likes the sound of it.

There’s a flutter off nervous excitement in her belly as she heads for the bedroom (this is not how she usually does business—usually, it’s just a hand down her pants when the person on the other end of the line is particularly good with words). She doesn’t think she’ll do this in here—she doesn’t like to bring work into her bedroom, that’s _her_ space—so she grabs a pillow off her bed, the vibrator from her nightstand and some lube for good measure, then heads back toward the living room.

On her way to the sofa, she grabs her little Bluetooth headset from where she’d set it to charge earlier and hooks it into her ear, connecting it to her phone just in time to hear him say, “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

She’s not sure if she hopes they do or hopes they don’t. She’s not sure she wants to share her first squirting orgasm with a stranger, no matter how attractive his accent might be.

For a minute, it sounds like he’s moving, too, so as she situates herself on the sofa (pillow fluffed beneath her head, pants and thong off, one leg propped up on the back of the sofa for comfort and access), she asks, “Are you relocating, too? Thinking of joining me?”

“Well, you did say you wanted us both to… jerk off.” He sounds a little embarrassed as he says it, something she finds more adorable now that he’s gotten over his shyness. “Thought the bedroom might be better for that than the middle of the living room.”

“You’re probably right,” she agrees, sprawled out in the middle of her own living room as she presses a few buttons to make the vibrator hum to life. (In her defense, she lives alone, so she can get off in whatever room she pleases.) She pushes the button again a few times to find the vibration pattern she likes, the one with quick little rolling waves, and then she adjusts the intensity up just one tick so that it’s not _too_ intense yet. Still, when she presses it to her clit, she inhales swiftly at the gentle pleasure. 

“Did you start?” he asks her in that quiet, low tone again. It feels… intimate. Close. Something she doesn’t usually get in this job, to be honest. It’s like talking to a long-distance lover. In fact, maybe she’ll imagine that that’s what this is—not a job, not a stranger, but a good man who’s simply too far away. Just this once, she’s going to be the one with the fantasy—her long-distance Valentine’s Day phone date.

So she closes her eyes, and breathes, “In a manner of speaking.”

“I’m not quite sure what that means...”

“It means…”—her breath catches a little—“that I turned the vibe on, and I’m rubbing the end of it against my clit…”

“Just the way you like,” he murmurs, and she realizes that, yes, this particular move is actually pretty close to what she’d told him she loves. She’s never really thought of it like that…

Since she’s pretending this is more than it is, and since it is technically her job to say such things, she breathes, “I’m imagining it’s you… rubbing your cock against me… nice and slow.”

“Getting you all slick?” he asks softly—his voice seems to drop lower the naughtier the sentiment, she’s noticed. She finds it endearing. 

She tells him, “Yesss,” then runs the toy down between her lips to gather some of said wetness before letting it glide back up and circling her clit with it. The material of the toy is pleasantly soft and smooth, and warming slowly from her body heat. It’s easy enough to actually imagine it’s the head of his cock, even though it’s a little too rigid, a little _too_ smooth.

It’s quiet for a few seconds, so she asks, “What about you? What are—mm—you doing?”

She hears him breathe again, and then, “I’m just, uh, rubbing my cock. Slowly for now—I don’t want to get ahead of you.”

“Mm, I appreciate it,” she moans, ticking the intensity of the vibrations up two more clicks; the stronger vibrations make her thighs clench and her breathing go heavier. “Complete my mental picture… How’s your cock? Average, or long, or thicker, or…?”

This is where men usually lie, and tell her they have huge cocks that will satisfy her like nobody else ever has. But Robin just makes a soft sound and says, “Average length, I guess. But thick around—condoms are a pain.”

She chuckles breathily at that, then praises, “Sounds nice. Men overestimate the importan— _ce_ ”—she breaks off into a little hiss at a sharper buzz of pleasure, moaning softly at the end and continuing—“of length. I’d take average and—mmm—thick over longer any day. I like to feel full.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm… Are you cut or uncut?” Maybe she shouldn’t ask, she knows some guys are uncomfortable with the answer, but he’s British, so she can wager a guess already and it’s the norm there, so…

Sure enough, he answers predictably, “Uncut. Does that bother y-you?” 

The little catch in his speech sends a thrill through her; it’s nice to hear she’s not the only one horny as hell at the moment. 

“Not at all,” she assures him, before teasing, “Does the carpet match the drapes?”

It seems to take him a second to get her meaning, and then he snorts a little, and says, “I suppose so, for the—mm—most part. Little darker maybe, but I’m not all that hairy, to be honest. What about you? Are you trimmed or bare or—”

It’s been too long since she’s booked a wax, and she needs to replace the dull blade on her razor, but she lies and tells him, “Brazilian.”

Robin lets loose a tight little moan and she knows she chose correctly. “Did you leave a little something behind for me?”

Her hips rock up against the vibrations as she amends her little fib to, “Landing strip,” and gasps softly. She’s getting way too into this; she’s supposed to be doing a _job_ , supposed to be talking in more than one or two words to help this guy get the Happy Ending he paid for. So she eases off her clit for a moment, letting the toy slide down and tease against her opening instead. 

Her sex clenches and releases in anticipation, the steady buzzing delightfully teasing, but it’s less intense than it had been on her clit, at least. 

“Are you still rubbing your cock for me?” she asks him, making sure that _she_ isn’t getting ahead of _him_.

“Mmhmm,” he confirms, and now that she’s not so focused on her clit, she can really hear the way his breathing has gone a bit more labored. Quicker. Deeper. 

“Good… Do it faster.” 

Regina listens for the telltale hitch in his breathing, and Robin doesn’t disappoint.

“Are you—oh...—are you fucking yourself yet, love?” 

The endearment sounds sweet on his tongue, and she drinks it in, letting herself pretend it’s something he’s said to her time and again. Letting her little fantasy run wild even as she admits, “No, not yet. I probably should. I never feel like I’m close if I’ve already come from my clit.”

“Mm, then I think you know what you need to do.”

Regina moans softly and nods, then remembers he can’t see her, and says, “Yessss, I do…” before quickly cycling through the vibration patterns until she gets to the one that’s simply strong, steady vibrations and then letting the toy sink into her. It goes in easy—she’s good and wet now—and the feeling of penetration has her moaning a much louder, “Unh…”

“Good?”

“Mm, yes,” she sighs, giving the toy a few slow, deep thrusts to get it all slicked up. Her voice is breathy as she tells him, “I’d imagine it was you, but the—mm—toy wouldn’t do you justice. It’s not very thick.”

“Doesn’t make you feel full?” he asks, a soft catch of breath sounding in her ear.

“No, it’s— _mmm_ —more of a, uh, _precision tool._ ” It’s slimmer around, but the little notch at the end catches her G-spot in a way that makes girth irrelevant. Regina arches her back a little as it does just that.

“Then perhaps just imagine I’m”—he gasps quietly—“the one holding it.”

Now _that_ sounds wonderful, and she tells him so, hissing “Perfect,” as she starts to pump it in earnest.

But only for a hot second before he’s urging, “Good,” and then, “I’m going to use it nice and slow to start, then. In...and out… and in… and out…”

Regina slows to the pace he sets, but she can’t help the little whine of frustration at the delayed satisfaction. He hears it, she knows he does, because he chuckles quietly, and assures, “Just for a moment… Just to tease a little… And then I’ll move it faster… and faster… speed up until I find the pace that draws just the right noise out of you…”

Thank God.

Regina moves the toy faster, faster still, until she’s fucking herself with it at a good steady pace, a loud, eager moan spilling out.

“There, just like that,” he praises. “I’m going to keep fucking you just like that, Trina.”

For a second, the name jars her—but only for a second, and then the thump thump thump of the toy against her G-spot shorts her mind out again and she doesn’t give a damn that this isn’t really real. That he’s not really her long-distance lover. He’s a hot British guy who’s about to talk her to an orgasm of one sort or another, and that’s plenty.

God, she loves this toy, loves the feel of it inside her, the way it makes pleasure spark and pop and shimmer out. Tonight, she doesn’t even mind the way it has her spilling guttural, appreciative grunts and moans, because it seems Robin responds very well to such things. 

He’s all sorts of talkative now, asking, “Is that good, love?” (She gasps a lurid, “Uh huh!”) and “Does it feel the way you—mm!—the way you said? Deep in your belly? Hot?”

God, fuck, yes. 

“Uh huh!”

Her wrist tilts just a little, the angle shifting, and suddenly it’s even better. Her head grinds back into the pillow, a higher, sharper moan popping out of her. Robin urges, “Yes, that’s it, love, keep going… fuck… Just like that… I’m gonna keep going just—unh—just like that until you come for me…”

“Fuck! Oh…! _Mmm!_ Unh—I! Ah!”

It’s a clumsy cacophony, but Robin is moaning in her ear at the sound, murmuring, “God, you sound so hot right now… Fuck…”

She can’t think of anything coherent to answer him with, can’t think at all, just cries another strangled, “Fuck!” and then he tells her that he’s going to fuck her faster now, just a bit faster. Regina’s eyes roll back as she does as asked, pumping the toy quicker, quicker, and letting out an appreciative, “Ahh!” at the sensation.

She feels it then, the tension, the heat, the sort of blooming, thick feeling, and she gasps, “I’m! Oh! I’m!”

“That’s it,” he urges, his voice labored and breathy now. “Fuck, God, love—mm!” His breath shudders out as her pulse thunders in her ears, tension winding, winding, her arm starting to burn at the quick pace. “Let go, just… Mmm! Just… come for me… let me—mm—hear you—fuck!”

She wants to, God, she wants to. Fuck it, who cares if he’s a stranger, she feels so close, _so close_ , fucking herself hard and quick, the toy making wet little sounds as it flies in and out her. Her neck arches and she writhes and every thumpthumpthump of her toy as it pulls back against her G-spot has her seeing stars.

She’s so close, _so close_ , but then the burn in her arm turns to a cramping pain, and she stops suddenly, with a defeated, “Shit!” and “Damnit!”

“Did you stop?” Robin breathes as she lets go of the toy and shakes her arm out, her thighs quaking, her clit aching, the toy still pressed deep inside her, held there by muscles gone gripping and tight. She can still feel the vibration buzzing away inside her, delicious and teasing, and God…

“Yeah,” she gasps, “My arm cramped.”

He huffs a single chuckle and mutters, “How inconvenient.”

“It was… vigorous,” she pants as she lifts a hand to knead at the tightened muscle until it releases.

“Sounded like,” he breathes. “Sounded amazing.”

“Mm. Thanks.” Genuine praise for a genuine performance, and she appreciates it as such, pocketing it to recall later with a sly smile. “How are you doing over there?”

“Slowed down now for a minute. This is a race I don’t particularly want to win.”

“How hard are you?”

“I think I could cut glass with this thing,” he jokes, and she snickers breathlessly. 

“I bet you’d feel amazing inside me right now. I’m so tight; I always get so tight when it’s like this.”

“Were you close?”

“Mm, right on the edge, like always. And stuck there.” She reaches down and gives the toy a testing plunge in and back out, her muscles clenching on it as it tries to retreat. Another thrust has her letting out a soft moan and sigh.

“Arm feeling better?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Good,” he tells her warmly. “Then you can close your eyes… and imagine me fucking you again. I’m going to go right back to the way we were, nice and quick, and hard, the way that makes your belly hot, and makes you so tight.”

“Jerk off while you do,” she urges, and he assures her that oh, he most certainly will. With a breathy laugh, she starts again in earnest, the way she had before, just quick enough, just deep enough, just right to have her head grinding back and her back arching and her thighs twitching and her mouth spilling “Oh!”s and “Mmmnah!”s and “Oh—f—guh!”s. 

She can barely hear the way Robin encourages her, can barely focus on the compliments he whispers about how bloody sexy she sounds. He’s moaning now, too, gasping and letting out soft curses, and she manages, “Pull your co—OH! Mmm! Fas-ster! F-fuck me, mm!”

He groans deeper in his throat, so she thinks he’s doing it, but all she can really process is the way everything has gone all tight again, the building pressure, the way her toes curl and the tension rises up her spine. 

She feels it building, building, lets out a broken cry of his name, but still doesn’t come. 

The breath explodes of out her as she stops again for a second, muttering a discouraged, “Fuck.” 

“No, don’t give up, don’t stop,” Robin pleads, his voice tight, “I’m—mm!—so close, come with me!”

She wants to, she really does, but it seems she’s doomed to fail at this one. Her arm isn’t cramping yet, though, and _he_ will certainly be getting his happy ending, so she rallies and starts to fuck herself again with the vibrator. It feels good, amazing, for once she doesn’t have to fake a single moan or gasp as a man tells her how much he wants her to come. 

“I’m—Mm! Oh!” she gasps, and then she hears him. 

“Oh _fuck_ —oh—ohmmm! Tri-naaaa…” He groans her (fake) name, pours relief over it as he comes, grunting twice. Regina slows to a stop, jealous of his release, her own so close she can taste it.

He pants in her ear, catching his breath as he asks, “Did you get it?”

She could lie—should lie—but she thinks he’d rather she tell the truth. So she admits, “No. But it’s okay. I definitely enjoyed myself.”

“You say that like it’s over,” he questions breathlessly.

“Well…” she points out, “You did come.”

“I did, but we had a goal in mind, and I never leave a woman unsatisfied,” he tells her. “Personal policy of mine. Especially now, when I don’t have to do any of the work.”

Regina snorts at that, shifting a little to relieve an ache in her hip. The movement is… slippery… in ways it usually isn’t, and she suddenly regrets not putting a towel down (thank God these slipcovers are washable). She drops one hand down to trace around the toy still buried deep, feeling how soaked it is, how wet she is, her fingertip running along the bottom edge of the toy and slicking through a dribble of fluid.

She laughs breathlessly again, confiding, “I’m so wet, I’m dripping down my ass.”

Robin groans. “God, I bet you’re a sight. Wish I could see you.”

“Mm.” She glances down and wonders why she left her tank top on in the first place; it’s all rucked up her belly now, the cups askew. “I’m all sweaty. Flushed.” The toy is still buzzing, and she’s starting to feel… not exactly numb but a bit too used to the sensation, so she reaches down, adjusting the rhythm again to the one that’s more of a random, staccato rhythm of pulses and strengths. Then she lets her hand settle just above her crotch, fingertips skating out and sliding along the edges of her sex. “My clit’s so swollen. I wanna rub it, but it’ll make me come.” 

It aches, dully, hungry for attention, and when she ghosts a fingertip over it, it’s plump and slick. God, she really wants to come.

“I don’t really see how that’s a problem.”

“You don’t want me to try again?” she wonders. It sure sounded like he wanted to go for the gold, so to speak.

“If you want to—I could listen to this all night.” She’s tempted to point out how much _that_ would cost but doesn’t want to ruin the moment. “But if you’re ready to come, I want to hear that, too. I’m sorry I beat you to the finish line.”

“Mm, in this case I’m taking it as a compliment,” she murmurs, wasting no time in pressing two fingers to her clit and rubbing in swift circles.

The relieved moan she lets out must be indication enough of what she’s doing, because he encourages her, tells her, “That’s it, love. Rub it faster. Nice and quick, make yourself come. Let me hear you.”

He doesn’t have to tell her twice. Regina shuts her eyes and focuses on the feel of her fingertips, soft and slippery with her own wetness as they rub quick, tight circles over her. It makes her squeeze on the toy—a pleasant enough sensation, but she wants _more_. The hand not rubbing at her clit reaches down to grasp the toy and while trying to both fuck herself and flick her bean at the same time doesn’t have her doing either to the best of her ability, the combined stimulation is enough to make her a babbling mess.

“God, fuck me… I wish… oh… so close, fuck… God, Robin, oh—oh! I’m! I’m gonna!” Her voice goes embarrassingly tight and high pitched as she squeaks out “Fuck!”

She’s so close, too close to keep this up, so she pushes the toy in deep and leaves it there, focusing on her clit as she feels the pressure building there, feels the tension rising.

Robin’s still coaxing, encouraging, letting out little moans either for her benefit or because he really does enjoy listening to her come that much. Either way, they work, and it’s not ten more seconds before Regina finally feels that surging rush of pleasure, every muscle going tight and then blessedly lax, seizing up again as her orgasm hits her, hard. 

She cries out, moans loudly, Robin’s voice in her ear murmuring, “Oh, that’s it, love, so bloody lovely. Are you coming for me now, love?”

She nods frantically but doesn’t have the words for it, just cries out wordlessly again, once more, riding it out as long as she can until the pleasure becomes too acute and she has to let her hand fall away with a satisfied groan.

She fumbles for the toy, punching the power down but leaving it inside of her. She hasn’t come that hard in a long, long time. It has her head spinning, has her feeling a bit punch-drunk.

“Oh my God… fuck… Happy Valentine’s Day,” she laughs giddily, and Robin let’s out a laugh of his own.

“Yeah,” he huffs. Regina’s thighs are still trembling with little aftershocks. 

She’s not done, she realizes. She wants to come _more_ , _again_ , but this man is paying to service his needs, not hers, and he already came. So she brings them back to reality with a panting, “That was incredible. I feel a little bad taking your money for it.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, but at least he sounds amused as he says, “I forgot about that. I don’t think I want to know how much I’ve racked up.”

A _lot_. She’s too addled to do the math at the moment, but she knows the total is significant.

“Mm, we’ll let you find out when you get the bill, how’s that?”

“Sounds good,” he agrees. And then he clears his throat and says, “Thank you for a lovely Valentine’s Day. It’s quite a bit more than I’d imagined for my evening, I can tell you that.”

“Mm.” She still hasn’t opened her eyes, enjoying the hazy afterglow and absorbing the last she’ll probably ever year of his lovely voice. “Thank _you_ from saving me from a night of the criers and the pervs. You were a very pleasant surprise.”

“So were you.”

“Feel free to call anytime and request me,” she invites.”If you commit to a time block it’s cheaper than the minute-by-minute. I have a feeling you’ll talk yourself out of it, but if you don’t… ”

“Well,” he tells her. He’s smirking again, she can just tell. “I suppose I’ll have to call—I never did teach you the particulars of chess, after all.”

Regina laughs, and clenches her thighs shut around the toy still snug inside of her, and makes a mental note to hit up Amazon for a chess set.

Just in case.


End file.
